He Was There
It had fallen once—like lightning—and after the fall, it did not leave.
He was there—close enough to hear, close enough to answer, if he had been listening. The garden was not empty; it only seemed that way. Nothing entered, nothing arrived. It had already been there, waiting—not loud, not forceful, only a voice, low and measured, patient. It did not rush. It did not press. It spoke when the moment loosened.
And he, under the weight of the day—the quiet pressure of living, the mind turned inward to hold its own ground—did not stand watch. Not defiance. Not rebellion. Just allowance. The kind that comes when what is present is taken for granted, and what should have been guarded is left open.
He was there. And still, it happened.
